The girl is quiet. With dark brown hair laced back with care into a delicate bow, and her eyes focused with an intensity only to be achieved by someone so young, she watches intently as the grain swirls beneath her dainty limbs. She paces in her tiny, chocolate dress, twirling her hands, plastic bracelets clicking to the soft sound of her little feet rustling as they alight on the worn wooden floors. Her lips and toes are silent, but oh, if we could only hear her thoughts.
        The man is still. His many wrinkles long set in his now tired features soften what was. His pale green eyes seem vivid only when compared to the chair he now rests in. His shoulders sag, his face turned to the sky beyond the ceiling. He cannot remember her, his daughter, for she exists only in lost hopes; but he has seen her, once, and his eyes do remember.
        The woman is asleep. Her hair spread across a white pillow long-since gone cold, along with blankets of all shades of green, her favorite color. She thinks of him and him of her, what could have been, and who now lies peacefully surrounded by loving, brown, warm, earth.
        Her eyes remember what her mind may never. Her daughter dances in a scene of sepia.
        I have one green eye and one brown eye. The green eye sees truth, but the brown eye sees so much more.